


Watching Over You

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, F/M, Lactation Kink, Pregnancy, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: Adult Dean/pregnant Mary. He wants to drink from her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Over You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/2172.html?thread=2044284#t2044284).

Dean has no idea whether it's God or the angels or a fucking djinn that rubber-bands him back in time, or at least makes him hallucinate that he's Marty McFlying it, but the instant he realizes where he is -- who that woman is -- he doesn't care. He can't get mad. It's his mother, and he's as in awe of her as anyone would be of an angel, an alien.

He's never seen her like this before. Barefoot and in her nightgown... yeah. He remembers that in precious handfuls of memories of being a little boy that have all become one over the years, distantly thought of as _before everything_. Young, yes, even younger than he was when he laid eyes on her, wide-eyed and wanting, like Sam when he was younger too. But not -- huge. Not pregnant like this.

Dean catches his breath, and it makes her turn to look at him, standing there in the corner of the nursery. It was his nursery once, but then it became Sam's...

"Baby," she says, and smiles, sweet and radiant.

"You know me?" he asks hoarsely.

"Of course I do, Dean. I've been expecting you. The angels told me you would need me..." She laughs suddenly, looking teary-eyed but delighted, somehow still that young girl Dean hadn't been able to save when Castiel sent him back the first time. "You look so much like your father! I wish he could see you. He'd be so proud."

Dean doesn't know if he could handle that. Seeing Dad again. Knowing how Dad wouldn't be proud of him at all. Not anymore. "He's not here?"

She shakes her head, blond waves all around her face. "He's at work."

"And, uh..." Dean can't keep his eyes off her belly, off how her petite frame has swollen up. He knows it's weird and rude, but he just can't stop, and can't bring himself to ask who's in there. He gestures inarticulately, but Mary seems to understand.

"Sam," she says, and sweeps a hand over her stomach in the nightgown, looking pleased in so many ways. It's heart-breaking. Dean has a lump in his throat and tries hard to fight it down. He's been in this damn position before and knows there's nothing he can do to stop what's happening. "You're at preschool. I think you're finger-painting today."

Dean has no memory of the day, no mental footing to rely on -- just the smell of finger-paint, the cold squish of it between his fingers.

"When's Sammy due?" he asks, trying to get a gauge on where he's been sent, anyway.

"April thirtieth. Still a month away!" Mary sighs and grins. "Am I big as a house?"

"No. You're beautiful," Dean whispers, and wishes he could shrink into the corner, because it's so true, and every time he sees his mother through one of these supernatural windows, it's all he can do to control his emotions. They get muddled and snake out of dark, closed-up, stomped on parts of his brain.

"You are so sweet," she tells him, smiling, but he's not a little boy bringing her home macaroni art from preschool anymore, and it swirls up shame in him.

"Why am I here?" he asks, voice rough with all the things he's trying to keep back.

"You need your mommy," Mary says, and finally steps toward him, looking a little tentative. Oh, God, he would never hurt her, but he knows how he looks. He's over thirty now, usually needs to shave, and may or may not have blood stains on anything he's wearing.

"I've always needed you," he manages to say, before the lump is back and he's all choked up.

"It's okay, baby. I'm right here," she says, and tries to tip onto her toes to wrap arms around him, but she's so pregnant it makes him stoop, trying not to squeeze Sammy between them or anything. She's warm and smells so good, a smell he can never remember when he's in his own time and place, but there's something particular this time. Do pregnant women smell like that? Like he knows. She makes a noise and steps back a little, looking sheepish.

"Sorry. I'm so pregnant," she laughs, voicing his thoughts exactly, and Dean falls in love with her all over again. "And kind of leaky. Sorry. I'm supposed to try to use this... pump thingie? To help alleviate the pressure. But I don't know. It's so loud, and usually John helps me get the damn thing working."

She casts a look over her shoulder at the machine in question, and it's as foreign to Dean as pregnant women are in general. Dean's eyes drop unwillingly to his mother's breasts in her nightgown, a row of snaps going up the bodice between them, and it makes him feel perverted to be looking at them, but also -- she's so beautiful. And he would never, ever hurt her.

"It's okay, Mom," he says, humbled to even be able to use the word in her presence. "I can help you."

Her eyebrows perk. "With the machine?"

"Uh, well. I betcha I can figure it out."

Mary tilts her head at him, looking so sweet and alluring that he just wants to hug her again, but also like he's three years old and she's not sure he knows how to tie his own shoes, let alone rig up a breast pump.

"Why don't you sit down?" she suggests.

The only seat in the room is the wooden rocking chair by the crib, and the breast pump is next to it, so Dean heads that way, having a stray memory of trying to climb out of the crib and onto the rocking chair. He must've been really, really little. He feels like he might break the chair when he sits in it; it gives a creak. Then he looks up, because his mom is next to him in that flowing nightie, her belly right by him. A rush of protective energy floods through him when he realizes that's Sam in there, and his hand's covering her navel gently before he can stop himself, or at least ask permission. Mary just smiles at him.

"You might feel him kick if you wait long enough."

"He kicks when he wakes up in the morning," Dean says. "Just jerks awake like a little spaz."

She laughs. "My sweet little spaz."

Dean wants to tell her everything. How Sam sucked his thumb till he was three. How he was a shrimp until he was fifteen and grew a million feet and became King Kong. How big Sam is going to be, how smart, how... powerful. But he doesn't. He just strokes Mary's stomach carefully, thinking _Don't worry, Sammy. I'm gonna take care of you_ , and lets Mary pull him in till his cheek is pressed up against her round tummy.

"Baby," she says then, a plaintive note in her voice. "If you want to help mommy, you could do something else."

"What?" Dean asks, looking up at her, but he already knows the answer, like a kick in the gut, because if this is his dream, his wish -- if he was sent here because he wanted this somehow -- then he knows. He knew the seconded he comprehended who she was and what state she was in. "Will you let me?" he asks, with mixed shame and eagerness.

It's got to be a dream. His mother undoes a snap on her nightgown -- two others are above it, but already undone -- and continues down slowly, opening it up to him. Dean's hard like he's never been in an instant, some part of him he never knew was there roaring in him and taking over as he realizes his mom, his beautiful young mom, is going to let him suck her tits. It's something he's never even once thought about before, how once his mom nursed him. It's utterly foreign and wrong.

His thoughts must be all over his face, and his cock's gotta be tenting up his jeans like crazy, because she says, "You always used to be a hungry little boy."

"Come here," Dean gasps, and he has his mother -- big pregnant belly and all -- on his lap then. She's not light, but somehow, the weight of Sam there with him is just fucking erotic as hell, because it's family, they're all family, and maybe this is what it's like to have a wife and be the father of a child, and at the same time, this is what it's like to be a child in love with his mother again. That, and her tits are hot. They're so fucking pretty and so fucking big for him, and she lets him unsnap the rest of her snaps in a heated succession, lets him gently cup her breast and get his mouth on it, so natural. It feels beyond familiar, an instant connection, but the pull of his mouth makes warm, wet milk fill it.

"That's it, sweetie," she manages, the sound of her labored breaths making Dean's dick pound. He swallows greedily, sucks at her nipple in sweet rhythmic tugs, squeezes at her to try and get more, and listens to what it does to her. It must be good for her, too, and that overpowers the niggle in his conscience. She whispers, "Baby," at him, pulls her loosened nightgown aside so her other breast is free too, milk dripping sheer white from her flushed nipple. Dean arches for it, wants it in his mouth, feels that warmth coursing into his mouth.

It _is_ a fucking dream. She doesn't dry up, doesn't stop dripping milk for him. Dean can't stop nursing from her, sucking at her titties in a way he's never gone after with a chick before, and finally he realizes he's gonna shoot off in his jeans in a panicked moment of heat low in his guts.

"Mom," he utters, and she's right there, too, legs open on his lap. He can hardly see around her stomach, but her hand is between her legs, and it's just pure instinct to reach around and slide her soaked panties aside. Mary lets him, somehow too full and round to stop him and get up off of his lap even if she had wanted to, but she's dripping wet, hotter than hot. She wants it.

 _This is why. This is why I'm going to Hell_ , Dean realizes, but all he can do is suck for all that milk like a desperate baby and finger his mother while coming in his pants like a fumbling, immature schoolboy. He can't even take offense when his mother gasps, "John." In a way, right then he wishes he was his dad, wishes he could unzip his jeans and push his cock up into her and feel the way he made her round and pregnant with his child. It's so fucked up. Angels didn't send him here for this.

"Maybe you didn't need your mommy as much as your mommy needed you," Mary whispers to him, smelling so sweet and milky.

"I love you, Mom," Dean whispers back. "Always gonna be here for you."


End file.
